


wendigo

by YouAreMyDesign



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Biting, Bottom Will Graham, Coming Untouched, Creampie, Crying, Dark Will Graham, Established Relationship, Fear Play, Hallucinations, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, Imagination, M/M, Mild Blood, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Scars, Scent Kink, Sweat, Will Graham Knows, Will Graham is a Cannibal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 07:03:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20238712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouAreMyDesign/pseuds/YouAreMyDesign
Summary: "He certainly has more self-control than I do." Will whimpers, panting. "I would not resist devouring you whole, if you displayed yourself for me like this."





	wendigo

They sit in silence, in stillness. Between them, dust motes dance and reflect the light of the fire, which warms the hearth, but cannot fight against the onslaught of winter digging her claws into the rafters, seeping through the cracks in the stone, gnawing at their perches with fevered intent. Still, it flickers and pops happily away, content to simply exist.

Lips part, and Hannibal lets his eyes linger on the tip of Will's tongue, as it slides between them, catches on his teeth, leaving a shine on his lower lip. His fingers flex, just an inch, spreading out wide along his armrests. His left heel digs into the carpet beneath them, seeking, perhaps, friction to try and warm his toes. His eyes, normally bright and brilliant like sea stones and stained glass, are black, cavernous. They reflect so little light, shielded by his lashes and the curl of his hair, the tip of which casts a sharp shadow over the bridge of his nose, as if someone cut his face in half, letting the darkness sitting in his skull blink back at him.

Hannibal does not smile, but there's a flicker of heat in his chest, anticipatory and fluttering, when he says; "Is he here now?"

Will does not blink. His tongue frees itself from the edges of his teeth, his nostrils flare just a fraction wider as he breathes in. Perhaps he, too, can smell the cold, smell the gathering moisture in the rooftop, the burn of firewood, the afterglow of fine food and sweet wine. Perhaps, further still, he can smell oil and pitch, tar and feathers that glisten.

His eyes lift, just shy of the top of Hannibal's head, and he sighs. "Yes."

Hannibal does not look behind him, for he knows that, whoever or whatever Will is seeing, he cannot see it as well. Not yet – their mind palace, though strong, is not as transparent as the waking world. Will's chin lifts, his lips part again around an exhale both wanton and afraid. The skitter of his heartbeat stings Hannibal's nose, the tension in his stomach is a feast for his eyes. His bared throat is so tempting a sight, and makes Hannibal want to rise, to rush, to bite and devour.

He does none of that, merely settles deeper into his seat, and closes his eyes. "Describe him to me."

"He's tall," Will whispers, the same way he always has when they talk of the monster in his head. "Black. Horned. His limbs are too long, but…suitably so. They suit him." Hannibal smiles, and makes a soft sound of encouragement. "His eyes -."

"No, darling. Not yet."

Will's shiver is audible, the creak of leather beneath his nails and thighs a symphony. Hannibal opens his eyes, so he can watch as Will stares, openly, at the shadows behind his head. His throat flexes as he swallows, he shows the edges of his teeth, his pointed canines, the corners of his mouth tense like he's trying to keep his tongue in his mouth, trapped behind the prison of his lips.

"He's thin," Will says instead. "Skeletal. I can see every bone, his sunken stomach, his sinew. His skin looks almost leathery but I know it – it won't be, if I could just…"

His fingers curl, one hand lifts, stalls in place like someone yanked it back. Will's tongue escapes as he gasps, and Hannibal sits forward. It's enough motion to draw Will's eyes, which are still so black, shining in the center with the golden glow of the fire. His cheeks have begun to color, and that is certainly not the fire's doing – not the one in the hearth, anyway.

"He's strong," Will whispers. "I know he's strong. I know he could kill me, easy as anything."

His voice betrays how afraid he is, and yet when his eyes lift again, they are soft with yearning, with adoration. Will looks at this monster in his mind the same way men looked at angels all those years ago – terrified, and in awe.

Hannibal smiles. "Tell me about his eyes."

Will's tongue wets his lips again, he drags the side of his bottom one between his teeth, releases it, plush and wet and pinkening. "Gold," he says, with the softest, sweetest sigh. "On fire, from the inside." He swallows, a pitifully needy sound stuck in the back of his throat. "Oh, _God_."

His hand falls, to his chest, like he must keep his heart trapped within it. His shoulders rise in a sudden inhale and he flinches forward, breathing out heavily. His thighs tense, his knees spread just an inch or so farther apart. His eyes drop to Hannibal's, wide and crystalline.

Hannibal lifts his chin, imagines that terrible, bestial thing behind him that haunts his beloved's dreams, causes him to quake and cry out in the middle of the night. Sends him, sometimes, to a frenzy so fierce that they leave the bed sore and shaking.

Will looks up again, and swallows. "I wish you could see him," he confesses, and shivers again, pulls his thighs together and slides his hand down to his knee, nails curling in the flat spread of his jeans and dragging.

Hannibal smiles, and Will's eyes lift, lower, darting to and fro as if he cannot decide upon which monster he would rather gaze. He shivers again, as loud as the whisper of trees through the grass of an open moor, seeking to touch, to play. Hannibal rises, and Will whimpers as he blocks out the sight of the monster, and approaches.

He cups Will's chin in a gentle hand, watches as Will's lashes flutter, his lips part again, his teeth, shining and white, show themselves like hounds waiting for their master's call to hunt. He tilts his head, pushes his thumb between Will's canines, down to his molars, until his nail hits the webbing of his jaw. Will's lips don't close, and he's starting to pant, breath warm and wet against Hannibal's wrist, saliva pooling on his tongue.

His other thumb grows jealous of the heat, pushes beneath Will's upper lip, measures the shallow rise and ball of the roots of his teeth beneath his touch. He slides it back, until Will's molars settle against nail and pad, and Hannibal can grip his jaw with utmost care. Will's pulse sings for him, fluttering and breathy, a soprano nearing the end of her aria, preparing for the final note.

Such songs have driven Hannibal to tears, in the past, and he sees the surge of emotion in Will's eyes, as Will lifts them, all-black now, expansive and molten as a pit of tar. He will devour Hannibal, if Hannibal allows him.

He spreads his fingers over Will's face, measures the give of his soft throat, runs his nail down the scar on his cheek like he might be able to reopen it with merely a touch. Will flinches, at that, and bites down on his thumbs.

Hannibal smiles, for Will's teeth, how they grip, are too dull to draw blood. Will breathes out like an angered bull, nostrils flared wide, head jerking back. Hannibal grips him, follows, until he is on Will, spread wide across his thick thighs, made to keep his seat and Will bucks and snarls beneath him.

He slides his thumbs from Will's mouth, one hand cradling his neck, so he can feel the flex of tendons and delicate sinew, arching into his touch like a she-cat in heat. Will gasps, head tilted back to expose more of his throat, lips parted like something is still holding them open. Or, perhaps, someone.

Hannibal smiles, and kisses sweet and soft under Will's ear. "What does he taste like, darling?" he whispers, sliding close to Will so that he can settle more comfortably, feel the press of Will's chest and belly when he breathes in deep, ride the tremors of his thighs and sink against the burgeoning evidence of his desire.

"I don't know," Will replies. He wants to know, Hannibal can hear it in his voice, smell it in the sweetness of his blood as it rushes, strong and swift, beneath his lips. Now that Hannibal can finally dress and mark Will as he desires, and after so long under his care and control, Will's entire body is a perfect lure, made to entice the most curious and deadliest of monsters. His scent, his skin, the curl of his hair, the precise angle of his body as he moves – all of it is the gazelle to the lion, the buffalo to the crocodile, the scared child to the monster under the bed.

All of it, pitched and perfect, as Hannibal reshapes him every day, and Will is so content to let himself be molded. For he, too, is ensnared, encased, in the incredible pleasure of total freedom – from morality, from shame. As long as he remains Hannibal's, to love and adore, he can do all that which pleases him.

"I don't know," Will rasps again, his voice low and ragged, harsh as the kick of whiskey before it simmers to a burn in the throat. Hannibal knows, behind him, in the looming shadows, Will's monster is standing, staring at them with his golden eyes. Will's stomach tenses, his hips twitch upwards, seeking heat and friction. His hands slide up Hannibal's thighs, but then reach further. There was once a time he clung to Hannibal like a shield, buried his face in Hannibal's neck and wept through his visions. Now, though, he yearns, he reaches, he wants more than anything to be speared on his monster's claws.

Hannibal turns his head to Will's throat, nuzzles the tempting arch of it, licks over the stubble-rough center, and Will chokes as though his vocal cords are seizing. His free hand curls around Will's nape, slides up through the baby hairs at the base of his skull, sinks into the thick curls that Will has started to grow long again. Easier to grab, easier to tug on.

Then, he pulls back, and meets Will's eyes, finds them unfocused, glazed like he's had too much to drink. He smiles, and holds Will steady, leans in and licks between the wet parting of his lips, touches the tip of his tongue to Will's, and earns another rough gasp in answer. Will's entire body arches to him, drunk on need, his neck limp and his jaw lax as Hannibal parts his teeth around Will's lower lip, and bites down.

The stab of pain makes Will whine, his nails finding Hannibal's spine and digging in as Hannibal tugs on his lower lip, turns it redder, swollen from the abuse. He bites again, tugs again, and pulls back when Will lets out a breathy cry of his name.

Their noses brush, and Hannibal tightens his grip in Will's hair. "Do you want him to touch you, Will?" he asks. Will swallows, for he knows Hannibal's possessiveness is a sharp-edged thing, but he nods, cheeks coloring a dark pink at the admission.

"Please," he whispers.

Hannibal does not let himself smile, though it's a close thing. He pushes himself off of Will's lap, sure that his beloved will stay put, and circles the chair, so there is nothing separating Will and the monster in his mind. Will moans loudly, tips his head back and flutters his lashes, spreads his hands wide on the armrests of the chair and pushes his knees to the edges of them, exposing his smiling belly, his bulging cock, his tender and vulnerable throat.

Hannibal's fingers trail along the scar on his forehead, and Will gasps again, his knuckles turning white. He leans down, and kisses Will at the part of his hair, combs his nails across his scalp, and says; "He certainly has more self-control than I do." Will whimpers, panting. "I would not resist devouring you whole, if you displayed yourself for me like this."

It is not said with jealousy, for Hannibal knows Will is an eager lover, a steady and tireless consort, when their desires pull at their hands and teeth and call them to bed. This is Will wanton, whiskey glazed as a fine steak, an offering placed before the altar of an unforgiving god.

Will's eyes close, for a long moment, and then he goes silent. He breathes out, and lifts one shaking hand, and flattens it midair as he might on Hannibal's chest, eager to feel the pulse of his heart. Hannibal conjures the image of this creature in his head, imagines his high-jutting horns, his skeletal figure, his glowing, golden eyes. There is something, in the shadows, he thinks – something that shimmers like slick oil on a nighttime slab of concrete, something that is only detectable for the way the firelight shimmers and beats against it, but cannot pass through. A dragon's wings blocking out the stars.

Will's hand drops, and he leans forward in his seat, his eyes opened only to slits, his shoulders hunched in and curling. He lets out a pitiful, weak little sound, slides to the edge of the chair, and Hannibal lets him go, watching curiously as the creature solidifies in their shared mind. It is easy to reimagine the darkness between Will's curls taking the shape of a long-fingered, clawed hand. Easy to think that the shine of the bookshelf on the wall behind Hannibal's chair is a smile. Easy to see gold in the reflection of the lamp.

Will lifts his head, breathing hard. Hannibal can smell blood, and he tilts his head, watches as Will wipes the back of his hand across his lip, and it comes back shining with red. He bit through his lip, and now he's got the scent. "Can you see him?" he whispers.

"Yes," Hannibal replies. "I can."

Will sags back against the chair, lifts his blood-stained hand and grips Hannibal's sleeve tightly, and Hannibal looks down at him, watches his face and only his face, as Will's legs spread wide, his spine curls and his body arches sharply up. Hannibal knows how he looks, the sounds he makes, when the rooms turn dark and they move together as one. He knows how Will's face tightens, his teeth show, when Hannibal first pushes inside him. He knows the roll of his body and the soft, punched-out gasp from his lungs when Hannibal penetrates, with tongue, with fingers, with his cock.

He watches the same reactions pass through Will, smiles wide and pets a hand down Will's blushing cheek. Will is still fully clothed, but now the creases and shadows in his jeans and shirt look like claw marks, as though a beast has shredded him to the bone. His thighs tremble and tighten as though they have something to grip, fierce, heels digging into the carpet.

"_Hannibal_," he breathes, and wrenches his head to one side, shuddering. His body jerks like a powerful force is colliding with it, in rhythm, his free hand scrabbling on the armrest of his chair. Hannibal smiles, and digs his nails into the sweet, exposed arch of his neck, mimicking teeth, and Will's trembles merely worsen. He is shining with sweat, now, and it darkens his hair, brings red to his cheeks and neck, salts the flavor of him in the room until he more closely resembles roasting meat, the kind that falls off the bone.

Hannibal bows over the back of the chair and kisses Will's temple, nuzzles his soaking wet hair, breathes in the scent of him, drenched with desire and so beautifully wretched. Will moans loudly, arches his throat into Hannibal's grip, shudders and grinds his hips down against the chair as if seeking fullness.

"Hannibal," he whispers again, weak and wanting. He opens his eyes, stares at nothingness, clings to Hannibal's sleeve and digs in with his nails. "Oh, _fuck_."

Hannibal smiles, and growls into his ear; "I can hear how good you're making him feel, darling." Will whines, shows his teeth, licks over the welt on his lower one that Hannibal began, and Will finished, splitting it open so it beads with new red. "It must be the ultimate triumph for him, to have finally caught you."

Will's lashes are wet with tears, and he clenches his eyes tightly shut, and a single one swells and rolls down his cheek. He drags his nails up the leather of the armrest, leaving sharp lines behind, and his body jolts again. His jeans have a stain in them now, his cock leaking and darkening the material just shy of the zipper. Hannibal reaches down, and undoes the button of them, pulling the halves apart. Will's cock rises further, hard on his belly, nestled in the thatch of pubic hair he keeps short-trimmed out of politeness for Hannibal's mouth.

Hannibal doesn't touch it. He wants to see if Will can achieve orgasm with nothing but the power of his mind, the fear and desire coiling together like twin snakes in his chest, causing his blood to sing its symphony, his muscles to join in the chorus. His sweat, his cries, are the highs and lows, as he pants in unsteady breaths and shudders with arousal.

"Are you going to let him fill you, Will?" he growls, for he knows this, as well – Will is a gluttonous creature, and relishes the feeling of being soaked and dripping. When Hannibal first finished inside him, Will grew so wild with satisfaction that they did not move from the bed for hours after, and Hannibal found he could still pierce Will with nothing but his seed slicking the way.

Will grits his teeth, whines soft and low. "I want him to," he says.

Hannibal smiles. "Then let him."

"Oh _God_." It comes out as a cry, so quiet the words barely take shape from his red mouth. Will's head rolls, and he stares upward, meeting Hannibal's eyes. He reaches up with his free hand, gently, so gently, touches Hannibal's jaw. Hannibal tilts his head, and kisses his wrist, finds his pulse threaded and fast.

He cups Will's hand. Cups his throat, tugs until Will chokes, and another tear spills from the corner of his eye, swept up by Hannibal's thumb as it meets his jaw. Will trembles for him, gasps, and then goes still. The air explodes with the scent of his release, as his cock twitches and spills – almost weakly, in comparison to how much Hannibal has drawn out of him before. His thighs pull together suddenly, he rears upward and Hannibal catches him before he can fall out of the chair, forces him back down.

Will's eyes are closed, now, his expression tense and his jaw clenched. Hannibal kisses the bulge at the corner, nuzzles the sweat from the ends of his hair, and gentles his hands, petting down his flexing throat, his heaving chest.

"Oh, Will," he breathes, and Will's exhale leaves him all at once, he grimaces and turns his face away. Hannibal allows it, contenting himself with using his nails to brush Will's hair from his neck, measures the slowing of his pulse as Will tries to catch his breath. Will's scent is sharply sweet, yet bitter, like sugared lemons, and Hannibal breathes it in eagerly.

Will's eyes open, and he lets out a weak, ruined sound. His hands release Hannibal, and settle on the armrests again, and he swallows, and clears his throat. Hannibal smiles, and kisses his red cheek, his temple, the scar on his forehead.

Then, when he senses Will has settled, and the shadows hold no more threat to him than they would any normal man, he wraps a hand in Will's hair, and tugs him back fiercely, so Will can meet his eyes. Will gasps, black pupils wide, firelight shining in the thin ring of blue around them.

"You do not owe him your fear," he says quietly, and Will swallows. He nods, and lets out a quiet, weak groan, and lifts a hand to cradle Hannibal's cheek. Hannibal kisses his hair again, and straightens, releasing Will's head.

"Hannibal," Will says, and he says Hannibal's name the same way he spoke about the monster – desperate, aching. Imagination can only go so far, and Will is still empty, still yearning. Hannibal smiles, and turns to face him. "I…"

He quiets. He is not ashamed, for Hannibal is the one who called the beast here. He is the one who allowed it to touch his beloved, who bade Will let him come closer. There is something dark lingering in Will's eyes, something that has a snarling mouth and jagged claws, that sees Hannibal with saliva-coated teeth and a wanting gaze. Marked, dirty with his release, his cock still exposed and his chest still rising with sharp, ragged breaths, he is shaking and cold, and hungry.

Hannibal cannot resist Will when he looks at him like that, and so he goes to him, cups his jaw with both hands and kisses him ravenously. Will moans into it, clawing at his flanks, his hips, knees spreading to try and coax him closer.

Hannibal smiles. "Do you want me, Will?"

"Always," Will replies, ragged and raw and snarling the word.

Hannibal pulls away, and carefully tucks Will's softened cock back into his jeans, rezipping them and refastening the button. Will's shirt is deeply stained, as is the hem of his jeans, and Hannibal breathes in deeply, the scent of his beloved's release coating his tongue like honey.

He takes Will's hands, and pulls him to his feet. "Then come upstairs, and let me wipe his touch away." Will nods eagerly, kisses sweet and wanting over Hannibal's pulse, and obeys without a word.


End file.
